


Tentacle Show

by Isis



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Criminals Made Them Do It, Forced Voyeurism, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Slight Canon Divergence, SmutSwap treat, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: “I wouldn’t try it,” said Capa Barsavi mildly. “The kraken is Lamora’s punishment for playing with my daughter’s heart.  Yours,pezon, is to watch.”





	Tentacle Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



> The canon divergence here is actually a bit of canon time-slip. In the book, after Locke's temporary kidnapping by the Gray King, the Red Hands come to the rooms in the Broken Tower to bring Locke to the Floating Grave, where he discovers something awful has happened. I've moved that reckoning a few days later so as to make room for this story.
> 
> Thanks to Ursula for beta reading.

When they arrived at the Floating Grave, Nazca averted her eyes, hurrying them along the passage to the elaborately locked doors without speaking. The twinge of alarm that Jean Tannen had felt when the Red Hands had come to their rooms on the seventh floor of the Broken Tower blossomed into a roiling nausea. Something must have gone horribly wrong.

He exchanged a nervous glance with Locke. Perhaps this was just another indication of the disruption of Capa Barsavi’s affairs, now that he was shitting himself over the Gray King. Perhaps. But when Locke asked, with his usual easy and affable manner, if there was anything she needed to tell them – if there was anything they should know before they faced her father – she shook her head quickly and slid her gaze away from their faces.

“We’re doomed,” said Jean.

“You’ll survive,” muttered Nazca, not looking over her shoulder at them as she operated the unlocking mechanism. “He will too. Probably.”

“That’s a relief to know,” said Locke, and he sounded sincere. Doubtless he was, thought Jean; when the old man had it in for you, there was generally no _probably_ about it. It didn’t make much sense for Barsavi to kill his prospective son-in-law mere days after choosing him. 

Unless he’d decided that he’d chosen the wrong Gentleman Bastard. Jean suppressed a shudder. The prospect of marrying Nazca terrified him even more than it did Locke. No, Barsavi’s reasoning, as Locke had told them that night, was sound. Perhaps he’d got wind of the Gray King’s plans. But Locke had just learned of those plans himself – had told Jean and the other Gentleman Bastards about those plans just moments before the summons had come for them. And even if that was the case, why was Jean there, too? 

The door clicked and clanked, and the polished iron crossbars slid to the sides to reveal the room. Barsavi sat in his thronelike chair at the far end, flanked by Cheryn and Raiza Berangias. The _contrarequialla_ wore sleeveless black leather that mimicked the black cotton they wore for teeth shows, displaying the corded muscles of their folded arms, and although there were no obvious weapons hanging from their belts, Jean had no doubt that there were blades concealed under their short leather skirts or hidden under their wild manes of black hair.

Barsavi crooked a finger, and Nazca led them along the edge of the room toward him, skirting the center of the room, where the wooden floor panels had been removed to reveal a large expanse of black water. 

“Hold,” said Capa Barsavi when they were about halfway across the room. They obediently stopped. The water slapped against the bottom of the boat, and Jean could see a dark shape lying quiescently just below the surface, at the far edge of the open space. He tried not to shudder visibly.

Barsavi looked at the two of them with the air, thought Jean, of a tavern owner assessing a fisherman’s offerings. Old and beginning to stink, but the best he was going to get. “I told you that I was giving you permission to court my daughter.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Locke. 

“I did not think I needed to explain that this means that you are not to be courting _anybody else_.” 

“Your Honor?” Locke sounded genuinely puzzled, which of course meant nothing. But Jean was puzzled as well. Sabetha was long gone, and though Jean did not spend every minute of every day with Locke, he was pretty sure that there _wasn’t_ anybody else.

Barsavi tilted his head to consider Jean, which Jean did not like _at all_. “I didn’t think he’d be your...type.”

Oh. Suddenly it all became clear to him. Barsavi must have had men outside the Last Mistake. He’d been so worried about Locke, when he hadn’t returned from the meeting with Doña Sofia Salvara until far too late, that when he’d finally spotted him he’d practically run out of the alley where he’d been pacing to embrace him. And yes, he’d kissed Locke hard on the lips out of sheer relief, but that was all it had been, the sudden desperate release from the terror that had gripped him at the thought that Locke had been lost to him – to them – for good. 

“Bring that _pezon_ to me, daughter,” Barsavi continued. “No, Lamora, you stay there.”

Locke clearly wanted to protest, and Jean couldn’t blame him. But what could either of them do? Certainly Jean keenly felt the absence of the Wicked Sisters, which he’d been briskly relieved of in the receiving room. But though it would have been satisfying to wipe those knowing grins off the Berengias twins with the edges of his hatchets, it would have been unwise in the extreme. Besides, Locke wasn’t the one being marched toward the capa – though from the expression on the old man’s face, Jean wasn’t sure which of them was in more trouble, Locke or himself. He only hoped that Nazca’s reassurances were based on something more solid than the swaying floor of the Floating Grave.

As Nazca and Jean neared the dais, the Berengias sisters moved to meet him, each taking one of his arms. Barsavi was taking no chances, apparently. Nazca went to stand next to her father. Odd, thought Jean, that her brothers weren’t here. Locke had told him that Anjais and Pachero generally lurked in the room when Barsavi took his cut.

“Will you do the honors, my dear?” Barsavi asked Nazca, his voice oily and sweet. She glared at him – she was, Jean expected, the only person allowed that particular luxury – and moved toward the wall.

 _No_ , thought Jean. _I can’t let this happen._ _Not to me, and certainly not –_ He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t what it looked like,” he blurted out.

Barsavi lifted a hand, and Nazca halted where she was. “You are saying you did _not_ kiss Locke Lamora?”

He could feel Locke’s eyes on him, boring a silent warning through his skull. Not that he needed it. “I could say I didn’t, but Your Honor would know it for a lie,” he babbled. “But it wasn’t _kissing_ kissing, not like that. It was only that we thought he was dead, I was happy to see him, because he was late coming back from – from something he was doing,” he finished lamely. He couldn’t very well give away the con they were running on the Salvaras. Nor could he mention the Gray King and his Bondsmage. Too late he realized what that burning glance from Locke had meant. 

But it didn’t matter. Capa Barsavi smiled at him, a smile full of false amity and very sharp teeth. “Nazca, my dear?”

She nodded, and reached for something on the wall. A lever. 

And then the wooden walkway that Locke stood on swung downward, and Locke tumbled into the water.

“Don’t worry, _pezon_ ,” said one of the twins. Their grips had tightened on Jean’s shoulders when he’d tensed to spring to Locke’s aid. “There’s nothing _lethal_ down there.”

“More’s the pity,” said the other twin. “A devilfish would have made it interesting Tentacles _and_ teeth.”

“It’s a Karthain kraken,” said Nazca. Her voice was steady. Jean looked over to see her regarding the rippling water with tight-lipped stoicism. “I put it in the water myself.” Locke had assured him that Nazca was no more interested in marrying him than he was in marrying her, but they were friends. Or at least they had been, though Jean expected Locke would forgive her for pulling the lever that had sent him sprawling into the water. He had already swum to the other side of the open space, where there were still floorboards he could grasp to pull himself out. 

“Krakens are boring,” said the twin on his left.

“Unless they’re horny,” said the twin on his right. With the hand that was not clamped down on Jean’s shoulder she tossed a paper packet into the dark water, a long throw aimed at the far side where the kraken lurked. It spun lazily in the air, a greenish powder flowing from two open ends, before it hit the surface, where it floated like an artificial lily pad. 

“You mix an extract of seaweed –”

“– and honey –”

“– and alchemical powder –”

Locke had both hands on the floorboard and had begun to lever his body up.

The twins were watching with interest. “It’s sort of like the summons mixture,” one said.

The ripple became a roil. A dark gray tentacle shot out from the water, wrapped around both of Locke’s legs, and _pulled_.

The other twin nodded. “Except not.”

To his credit, Locke didn’t scream as the tentacle dragged him away from the edge. Instead he took great gulps of air, filling his lungs against the prospect of being pulled under. He swept his arms back and forth as though swimming, angling his hands to beat against the slimy gray hide of the creature that held him.

The body of a Karthain kraken is not particularly large. It’s about the same size and weight of a well-fed twelve-year-old boy; much smaller than the sharks used in the teeth shows. But that body bristles with several dozen tentacles of various lengths and thicknesses and purposes, and the longest is many times the height of a man. Some are for grasping seaweed, the creature’s main food, and bringing it to the mouth that is hidden among the tentacles. Some are covered in fine sensory hairs, to feel currents and vibrations from boats and other fish, which allows the eyeless kraken to navigate easily in the water. Some are for lashing out against would-be predators. And some are for mating.

Instinctively, Jean tried to move toward the water, toward Locke, to help him in whatever way he could. He tried to step forward, but the Berengias twins held onto him like particularly persistent lampreys, and although neither of them had his bulk, together they outweighed him, anchoring him solidly in place.

“I wouldn’t try it,” said Capa Barsavi mildly. “The kraken is Lamora’s punishment for playing with my daughter’s heart. Yours, _pezon_ , is to watch.”

“Who knows?” said the twin on his right side as she shifted her feet so that they were planted even more firmly on the floorboards. She turned her head and licked Jean’s ear. “You might enjoy it. Just think of it as a private Teeth Show. Without the teeth.” She nipped at his earlobe, then thrust her tongue into his ear, and he jerked away. 

Locke was thrashing helplessly in the tentacles that coiled around him. One was lashing back and forth around his body; it must have been one of the defensive tentacles, with sharp spines along its length, for with each stroke great tears appeared in Locke’s clothes, a thin line of blood welling from the skin underneath. Another wrapped around both his arms, tying his wrists together like a length of living rope, while yet another – a thick, pock-marked tentacle – encircled his torso and held him tightly against the body of the kraken. 

They moved together, sometimes higher in the water, sometimes lower. Every time Locke’s head was pulled below the surface, Jean held his breath along with Locke, anxiously watching for him to re-emerge, gasping and panting. That was the most terrifying thing, he thought: to see one’s friend and partner disappear into the murky black water, and not know if he’d come up again.

But though that sent tendrils of fear down Jean’s spine, it was a hopeless fear, one he could not do anything about. He knew, in the part of his mind that viewed the spectacle with the cool analytical composure of a money-counter, that any attempt at intervention would result in both of their deaths. So that was the calculation he made: all or nothing. If Locke came up limp and not breathing after one of these dunkings, then Jean would break free in a rage. He’d take down the Berengias sisters and the capa too, if he could, and if Barsavi’s men got him before he could escape the Grave, well, that would be that. But as long as he could see that Locke was still alive when he breached the surface, Jean could control himself, and they both would live.

Or so he thought.

Locke had been underwater for far too long, and Jean could feel himself tensing all over as he watched the kraken’s exposed tentacles whip the water into white foam. The twins felt it, too. “Don’t worry,” purred the woman on his left. “The kraken can’t dive far. We strung the net only a few feet below the surface.”

“Though there’s still plenty of water,” said the other.

“And there’s always a chance Lamora will get his foot caught in the net.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. The kraken will pull him out. Wouldn’t want to lose its plaything.”

Just then, the kraken burst out of the water, the tentacle it had wrapped around Locke’s wrists shooting upward and dragging him out. He looked nothing like the confident _garrista_ who had walked onto the Grave; his back was drawn into an arch as he emerged, the ruins of his clothing hanging in rags from his shoulders as he gasped for air. As he kicked against the creature, Jean could see that one of his boots was gone, sucked or flayed off his foot. 

“Delicious,” murmured one of the twins appreciatively. 

Under any other circumstance, Jean would have to agree. Locke’s nearly-naked body was on full display, every tendon of his slender form strained against his captor. His skin was striped with thin cuts which were beginning to ooze tiny crimson droplets, but other than that, he looked hale enough, considering; certainly well enough to twist and struggle against the kraken’s questing tentacles.

And questing they were. Several got caught in the remains of his clothing, and pulled away the last shreds of fabric. One wrapped around one of Locke’s legs and drew it off to the side, evidently trying to stop him from kicking. When Locke tried to scrape it off using his other foot – that one still had most of its boot on, though it was cut through and dangling from his ankle – another tentacle snaked around that leg and held it fast as well. A thick, ropy tentacle uncoiled from the kraken’s body and began to investigate its immobilized prisoner. Its glistening tip delicately pressed against the underside of one of Locke’s knees, then moved to his thigh. 

Jean couldn’t look away. The tentacle took its time exploring, prodding both thighs until it found Locke’s cock and balls. It poked them with a lack of gentleness that made Jean wince and Locke curse, which seemed to startle the kraken, for the tip suddenly withdrew, holding itself a handsbreath away as though considering what to do next.

“Well, go on,” muttered Barsavi.

As though the creature heard him, the tentacle moved again, pressing upward. It paused for a moment, flicking against the apex of Locke’s thighs, and then smoothly elongated itself into his body as Locke jerked and gasped and twisted in the monster’s grip. For a moment, as Locke turned, Jean caught a glimpse of the thick column of tentacle-flesh disappearing into the cleft of his ass, its gray hide rippling as it thrust its way in. Then Locke shifted, or the creature did, and all he could see was Locke’s pale skin and straining muscles, and tentacles writhing all around, and churning black water.

Part of him yearned to throw off Cheryn and Raiza’s clammy, knowing hands, to jump into the water heedless of the certain consequences and tear Locke away from the thing that was fucking him. But part of him – part of him wanted to tear Locke away and fuck him himself. And that part was currently stiff and uncomfortably pressing against the front of his trousers. _Crooked Warden, protect your poor servant, and don’t let those shark-toothed bitches notice._

But the Nameless Thirteenth must have had business elsewhere. A long-fingered hand slid across his crotch, palming his erection. “Oh, you _are_ a perverted one. Cheryn, shall we help this poor boy out?”

“Keep your hands off me,” he growled. 

A strangled cry came from the water, and Jean jerked his attention back to Locke. Despite the tentacles twining across his body, his eyes were fixed on Jean. “Don’t let –” Locke called out hoarsely – and a tentacle jammed itself into his mouth, choking off whatever he was going to say.

“He won’t do us any good if he’s dead, Papa,” Nazca said.

“He won’t do us any good if he doesn’t learn his lesson,” said Barsavi irritably. “Raiza, get your hand off that _pezon_ ’s prick. This isn’t supposed to be _enjoyable_.”

“Not even for us?” Raiza pouted, but she moved her hand – though not until after she’d given Jean’s cock a firm squeeze. 

Jean tried desperately to will away his arousal. _Think of Barsavi’s contempt, think of those leering twin_ _shark-women_ _._ He looked over toward Barsavi and saw Nazca looking at him, cool appraisal from behind her optics before she turned her attention back to Locke, and that almost did it. But then Locke grunted, and Jean looked back at him – splayed out in the kraken’s grasp, back arched and straining around the tentacles fucking him in his ass and in his mouth – and the blood rushed back to his cock.

“Looks like the kraken’s enjoying it, anyway,” said Cheryn. A pinkish blush was beginning to suffuse the gray hide of the creature, and its tentacles that were not wrapped around or thrusting into Locke were whipping back and forth in ever more frenzied patterns. Occasionally one slashed his thigh or his torso, leaving a welt or a thin trace of blood or dark slime. Locke himself was moaning, a continuous low sound distorted by the tentacle in his throat; his eyes were tightly closed, his hair wet and plastered around his face. 

“Not much longer,” said Raiza.

And it wasn’t. The kraken heaved and thrashed, beating the water into foam that boiled up around it, and then it plunged with Locke below the surface with such force that a small whirlpool formed in their wake. Jean had just time to begin a silent prayer that Locke held enough air in his lungs before Locke was ejected into the air, tumbling and groaning and falling with a large splash back into the water.

“You should retrieve him while you can, _pezon_ ,” suggested Capa Barsavi. Jean didn’t need to be told twice. The Berengias twins dropped his arms, and he jumped into the water, swimming as fast as he could toward the spot where Locke floated face down and motionless. The cold water deflated his erection, which was a blessing; not that Locke noticed as Jean gently turned him upward and got his face out of the water. 

“Come on, come on,” Jean muttered. Shifting so that he could lift Locke’s head on his own shoulder, his feet found the netting that formed the floor of the chamber only a few feet below. He spread his legs for stability and pounded first on Locke’s back, then on his chest. “Gods damn it, breathe.” 

Locke opened his eyes and blinked at him, then coughed a mouthful of water and slime across Jean’s shoulder. “Oh, gods,” he said hoarsely. He drew in a large, wheezing breath and then coughed again.

“You should get him out of there before the kraken is ready for another round,” said one of the twins, though she sounded a bit regretful, as though she would prefer him to stay. _Small chance of_ that.

Jean glanced at Barsavi, who jerked his head impatiently toward the door. He turned back to Locke, who was still wheezing and coughing. “Let’s go.” He looped one of his arms around Locke’s chest and stroked awkwardly to the closest edge, where he braced against the netting and heaved Locke up onto the wooden walkway before scrambling up himself. “Can you walk?”

“I will,” mumbled Locke, but his knees buckled as soon as Jean pulled him upright. Jean put an arm around him to take most of his weight, and together they stumbled to the door where Nazca waited, her face grim and her eyes red-rimmed behind the optics. 

“Papa’s satisfied, I think,” she said as she worked the lock and let them out. “Stay out of sight for a while.”

“Do you have –” Jean began, but she shook her head and pushed them out into the passageway, closing the door behind them. 

He took a few steps, Locke still leaning heavily on him, then paused. The enforcers and petty guards who had taken their weapons in the reception room hadn’t sniggered knowingly when they’d come in, which meant they hadn’t known what Barsavi had planned for them. Which meant there was no reason for them to learn it now. Carefully he leaned Locke against the wall and took off his own shirt, which was still dripping wet, and then slid Locke’s arms through the sleeves and wrapped the rest around his body. It hung to Locke’s knees, making him look a bit like a small child playing dress-up, but that was all right.

“Only a few more steps,” he whispered as he pulled Locke back into a more-or-less vertical position, draping Locke’s arm around his waist and placing his own arm firmly around Locke’s shoulders. “We’ll get our gear, and once we’re off this floating shithole I’ll carry you home.”

“’n then what?” 

“Then I’ll get some warm brandy into you,” he said. He could feel Locke shivering against him; his wet shirt might cover him from curious eyes, but it didn’t do anything for the chill. 

“Brandy, good,” Locke slurred. “’m cold.” He made as though to burrow against Jean’s side.

“Warm brandy and a hot fire,” said Jean, coaxing Locke to take a step down the passageway toward the reception room. “And the softest bed in the House of Perelandro, and all the blankets.” A few more steps. He squeezed Locke’s shoulder encouragingly, then thought better of it when Locke winced and stumbled. “Gods, sorry, sorry. Lean on me as much as you need to.”

Locke closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they were more focused, as by force of will. His grip on Jean tightened. When he spoke, each word was clearly enunciated. “Saw you looking.”

 _Oh, shit_. There was no doubt what Locke meant; not what Jean’s eyes were doing, but his stupid unthinking cock. “Ah. Well. It was – it just happened, Locke, I didn’t –”

“All because you kissed me,” said Locke. “And it wasn’t even _kissing_ kissing.”

“I know, it was all my fault, you can take it out of my hide later. But for now –”

“For now, you’ll get your Wicked Sisters and get me off this floating shithole. And when we’re home, where that son of a bitch Barsavi’s goons can’t see us,” said Locke, his scratchy voice dropping to a low whisper, “you and I, we’re going to _earn_ that fucking punishment.”


End file.
